Like any first time mom, when I was pregnant with my daughter I wanted to do everything I could to give her an optimal growing environment. This included playing music for her in utero so that she could develop an appreciation for music early on. I didn’t really listen to classical music on my own, so I opted for classics of another genre: Michael Jackson! Who doesn’t like some King of Pop every now and then, huh?
So I loaded up Spotify, queued up some of my favorite songs, and then squashed one earbud (I didn’t have those huge headphones available to me at the time) into to my belly and put the other earbud into my ear. I was jamming along, having a swell old time, mouthing the words so as not to disrupt my office mates, when I stopped dead in my tracks. I noticed the lyrics that I was so happily singing and realized that it probably was not the message I wanted to give my unborn child. What were the lyrics, you ask?
The kid is not my son!
Mom of the year, right here folks! My daughter wasn’t even born yet I and here I was subliminally telling her that I was not her mother. While I continue to think “Bille Jean” is a fine song, I realized maybe “Free Willy” or “Man in the Mirror” might have been more appropriate in that situation.
Following that Mom Fail, I opted not to return to Michael Jackson for my pregnant jam sessions. Instead I stuck to Pentatonix and their Christmas hits. Those seemed to be a safe bet. (And yes, I did listen to Christmas music from October to January of my pregnancy. Excessive? Yes. Awesome? You bet! The only thing I love more than Christmas music is egg nog.)